Parasite; The True Story of the Zombie Apocalypse by Doug Ward
Drawing the curtains closed, I jumped as my pocket vibrated, joined by the sound of AC/DC's song, "Thunderstruck." It was Melissa. Hurriedly fishing around in my pocket, I found the animated device and pushed the answer button. As I brought it to my ear, I could hear the sound of static. It was probably a poor connection.
"Hello, Mel?" I asked in a rush.
Her voice was faint and garbled with static. "Hank? Are you ok?" Relief flooded my body. I literally fell back into the chair by the window.
"I'm fine, Honey. Where are you?" I asked as fast as I could get it out.
"I'm at work." I could make out over the crackling. "I'm ok."
"Stay in a safe place," I said. "I'm going to come and get you."
"But they..." I heard what I thought could have been a crash and the line went dead.
My phone had four bars and data and the display told me I had twenty-seven messages as well as nine voice messages.
I listened and read each one, looking for clues to how Melissa was faring. Almost everyone was asking me to call or text her. She said they were trapped at work with infected people outside trying to get in and that they were waiting for the police.
A part of me was in euphoria. My wife was ok. She was alive. I could barely contain myself. But there was also the dread. What if something happened? I took another peek out of my front window. From the look of Jim's front door, I surmised that the undead weren't the best at breaking down barriers, so if she stayed barricaded in Mel would be just fine, but if there were enough zombies? I had to stop my thought process there. She would be fine. I had to find a way to get there. The sunlight outside was fading, but another light caught my eye. The light was on in my car. The door was standing wide open.
"Crap!" I said loudly. I must have left it open when I went out to get my phone. The light was dim, but if I went out soon, maybe the car would still start.
In a frenzy, I searched for things I might need. I needed a weapon. Melissa wasn't fond of guns and in this sleepy college town, I had never felt the need to acquire one. That sure would change if we got out of this mess. The best thing I could find was a butcher knife; the kind that looked like a little ax. I wasn't so sure of it as a weapon, so I also grabbed the biggest knife I could find. Carrying a blade in each hand, I resumed my search. I stuffed some granola bars in my back pocket and snatched a bottle of water out of the fridge. Juggling the two knives and the water, I discarded the bottle, leaving it on the counter in favor of having two hands to fight with.
I thought of grabbing my jacket but seeing it in front of the door soaked in the dried blood puddle made my choice for me. It was probably welded to the tiles anyway.
There was enough dusky light to still see pretty well. I checked all sides of my house for any animated neighbors and, finding none, I felt compelled to make a try for it. The light in my car's interior was dim, but still shining, so that also bolstered my confidence. Jen and Marcy's torso were still across the street, so I would have to make this quick.
The blood in the doorway was dry, so I didn't have to worry about slipping. The congealed pool actually offered a modicum of traction, so I unlocked the deadbolt and moving as fast as stealth would allow I made my way to the yawning car door. I looked in the back seat before entering so I wouldn't have any surprises. Dropping the knives to the passenger seat, I closed the door, being careful to let the door latch slowly to minimize the sound.
The key slid smoothly into the ignition and I involuntarily held my breath as I turned it. The motor made a cranking sound as it struggled to start. In desperation, I turned the key to the off position and tried it again. Nothing. It made the same cranking noise that it made before. It just wouldn't catch. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Jen was halfway across the lawn and nearing the street. Her mother's torso, propelling her half body with her hands and arms, was following at a slower pace. The noise had also attracted others. At least two more zombies were ambling toward my car from various directions. In desperation, I tramped on the gas to see if giving it more fuel might do the trick. Nothing.
A hand slapped against the driver's side window. The face of Mrs. Crawford flattened against the glass, jaws working as she tried to find an entrance. Trails of drool followed her mouth's movements as another undead struck the car from the other side. Trying to look nonchalant, I pushed the button engaging the door locks as another joined Mrs. Crawford on her side of the vehicle. What I had thought was a modicum of safety was actually a trap. I was exposed to the creatures, but sheltered for the time being.
I returned my attention to the car. Turning the key with all my strength did no more than any of my previous attempts, but I tried it two more times, nonetheless.
As the depleted battery made its last gasps, my heart dropped. I was a failure. I had spent my life with my head in the clouds. I had no friends and barely knew my neighbors. I hadn't been an attentive husband, but when I was about to make up for my past misdeeds, I had let my wife and myself down. I had failed.
Picking up the knives, I pondered the end. I didn't want to become like those creatures out there. There were speculations that the dead only rose after being attacked by the zombies and bitten by them. Maybe if someone died naturally they wouldn't rise again.
Faces and entire bodies pressed against the vehicle as I contemplated my demise. Mrs. Crawford's stump of an arm drew abstract images in blood red and puss yellow. It was almost as if she didn't notice that the appendage was gone. It was only an inconvenience instead of a crippling wound.
The car's gentle rocking would have felt soothing if it weren't for the things rocking it. The squeal of their flesh sliding against the glass was unnerving. Then came the blast.
I was lost in my morass when the first shot sounded. It was soon followed by a second, then a third. The zombies lost interest in me and focused on the sounds of the attacker. Another blast and then another, the undead seemed like they were thinning out. A man rushed to the passenger side of the car and slammed his hand off the glass three times rapidly.
"Come on Hank!" he called out.
I crawled over the console to the passenger door and threw it open just as another gunshot rang out into the semi-darkness. A revolver was pressed into my hand, causing me to drop one of the knives. I then watched as my neighbor, Dean, shrugged a shotgun off of his shoulder and pumped a shell into the chamber.
"Hurry up!" he ordered. "We got to get back to my place."
I followed his lead, head swiveling left to right. Dean blazed a trail towards his front door. He basically shot at anything that moved. I mimicked his style and wound up nearly shooting Mrs. Crawford's cat. The gun's recoil bucked in my hands but it felt good. It made me feel powerful.
We bolted through his door, slamming it shut so hard I think I felt the walls shake. Dean secured the locks and we both nearly swooned. The house was dark, but the faint glow of candles gave just enough illumination to see by. The drawn curtains and blinds probably blocked any of the dim illumination from escaping and giving him away.
"That was close!" he said while lowering his weapon and walking into his living room.
"Almost too close!" I answered, trying to calm my breathing while following him.
Dean slumped into a well-worn brown recliner and propped the gun against the wall behind him. I chose the end of the couch, setting the pistol on the coffee table as I sat down.
"Thank you, Dean!" I gushed. "You saved my life. I can't believe you did that!"
He just waved it off. "No thanks necessary. I was actually trying to figure out a way to talk to you and the opportunity just sprang up."
I gave him a puzzled look. "Talk to me about what?" I asked as a slow thumping began at the closed door.
"We must've missed one," he said, looking at the door. "You're a doctor, right?"
&
nbsp; "A doctor of biology with an emphasis in entomology..." I added.
"Well, it's still the same stuff, Julie is really sick."
My first thought was, who's Julie? I had always believed that Dean had lived here alone. He was the crazy single guy who owned way too much camouflage. I really didn't want to tell him I wouldn't be able to help her unless she was a bug. But I couldn't do that, especially after his daring rescue. So I said, "Sure, let's have a look."
Dean turned on a small flashlight and led the way upstairs. He opened their bedroom door, turned on the light, and let me in. I was temporarily blinded by the glow since I wasn't ready for it. My first concern, as I covered my eyes to give them time to adjust, was that it was so bright it would draw undead. But my worry was for naught, as the window was covered with cardboard to prevent the light from getting out. I was very relieved to have normal illumination to aid in my examination.
A low moan issued from the bed, drawing my immediate attention. I could see his girlfriend, Julie, covered to the neck in a thick comforter. Her face was pale and covered in sweat. Eyes, twin slits, blinked rapidly as she tried to focus on me.
"When did the illness start?" I asked with my best medical doctor voice while I leaned closer to look at her drawn face.
"She got sick over night. I thought she'd really tied one on, but I have never seen a hangover that could last the entire next day. I checked on her about an hour ago and thought I had to do something soon."
I placed two fingers at her throat. The skin there was cool and clammy. I could feel her pulse through her carotid artery. I really didn't know what I was doing, but it felt very slow. I nonchalantly reached up and felt mine as a comparison. My pulse was much stronger and faster feeling. I was confident in my finding now that I had something to match hers against.
"Her pulse is a little weak," I stated with as much of a matter of fact attitude as I could. "Can you lend me the flashlight?" I asked Dean, holding out one hand, waiting.
Dean fumbled for the switch and powered the light on before placing it in my outstretched palm. His hand was shaking as he released its weight into my grasp. I then noticed the beam of light was exaggerating the shake of my own hand.
"Look straight ahead," I instructed the young woman in the bed. As I shone the light directly in her right eye, I noticed that it had a very slow reaction to the bright light in her face. In addition, the iris had very little color.
I tested both eyes several times and then asked her to follow the light. She had trouble tracking the beam as I moved it in a few deliberate directions.
"Can you sit up and lean forward?" I asked, half expecting her to say she couldn't. When she began to struggle out of the cotton cocoon Dean and I assisted her with gentle hands on her back. The comforter and sheets fell forward and I could see that Julie had sweat right through the thin fabric of her muscle t-shirt.
I placed an ear against her back and asked her to breathe normally. Having to strain, I could barely distinguish her lungs operating at all. Asking her to exhale and inhale deeply produced only moderately better results. I could see that my neighbor's face bore a look of concern. His hands were folded over his chest as if praying. She was very ill and in need of a real doctor's attention.
"You can lay back down now," I soothed, replacing my hand behind her shoulders to add support. As she began to recline, one of her hands reached out and began to pull the bed cover back over her. The smell nearly knocked me over. She smelled like the dead outside. Worse yet, the bandages on her arm seemed soaked through with dried blood and what looked like puss.
"What happened to your arm?" I asked, trying to quell the tremor of fear in my voice.
"Some guy bit her last night when she was out. It isn't deep. Just a few tooth marks. I put peroxide on it and covered it with gauze after she got home." Dean said, looking me directly in the face.
He knew, or at least suspected, what was happening to his Julie. I wasn't sure, but I thought he must have smelled the wound a few moments ago. It clearly smelled of rotting flesh, just like the zombies outside.
I reached down, speaking in comforting tones, and removed the bandages. As the gauze unwound I nearly gagged. The odor was overwhelming. I unwrapped the last bit of the bandages, revealing an angry red wound. Puss spilled from at least three places where I suspect the man's teeth had broken the surface of her skin. The crimson area was totally surrounded with black, putrefying skin. Jagged lines of black radiated out across her healthy flesh like veins full of venom. Maybe they were. I was way out of my league here.
I doused the wound in more peroxide, which foamed like crazy as it hit her rotting skin, and rewrapped it in fresh bandages. I splashed some more peroxide over my hands to try to sterilize them the best the situation would allow, then dried them on a clean towel. After we tucked Julie back in bed, I motioned Dean outside. He powered the flashlight on and lead the way downstairs.
When we reached the living room, Dean turned and asked, "How is she, Hank?" His eyes were begging for good news.
"I don't know. She really is in bad shape." I lied, not wanting to have to tell him that she was on her way to becoming like the undead outside.
"Who is she?" I blurted out, not sure how to ask with any decorum.
"She's my girlfriend! We've been dating for a few months now," he responded, sounding mildly offended.
"I'm sorry, Dean," I apologized. "I just don't hear all the neighborhood gossip. I spend too much time in the lab."
My neighbor stood facing me with an odd look. After a short moment, he responded. "That's all right. I understand." Clearly, he didn't.
"We need to get her to the hospital," I said, stating what I thought was obvious.
"The news was saying something about the hospitals, but I can't remember what," he murmured. "It's probably not important."
I placed a hand on his shoulder and propelled him toward his kitchen. "Probably that they are in the safe zones. The news was saying that they have a bunch of protected areas set up and were telling people who were in trouble that they could go there." I knew that there was something else. It was something that I was forgetting. I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Dean had an attached garage, which housed a Jeep Liberty. We stuffed the back with a case of warm water and some food from his kitchen. Food, both canned and boxed, all made its way into the rear of the vehicle. It looked like we were going camping. We added some of his weapons and ammunition to the trunk and topped it off with some clean clothes. Dean had a small armory of guns. He kept pulling them out of drawers, closets, and even some places where you would never expect a firearm to dwell. One of the craziest places was a basket by the toilet.
When I asked him about it, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Wouldn't want to get caught by some crook while sitting on the crapper! It just wouldn't be right. You're just too vulnerable there... Exposed."
I really couldn't argue with logic like that, so I just nodded and snagged a four pack of toilet paper, just in case.
Before we went upstairs, Dean handed me a box of bullets for the revolver and two things called speed-loaders. He showed me how the speed-loaders worked and I stashed them in the front pockets of my Dockers. The gun, I tucked in the front of my belt. I was feeling powerful as I looked at the gun stuffed in my pants. Macho. When my eyes met Dean's, he gave me a weird look and said something about getting a holster before I shot off something I might want to keep. I was still clueless when he turned and began ascending the stairs. I guess he meant I might discharge the pistol, hitting myself in the foot?
When we returned to the room, I noticed that the smell had gotten worse. Dean opened a drawer and tossed me what he had retrieved. It was a holster. I guess he really was worried about where I had the gun. I unbuckled my belt and went about affixing the holster.
When it was situated, I had to admit that I was looking quite cowboyish. Dean was ready with his girlfriend. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with a robe wrapped around her sweat-covered form. She was looking a little worse, but I brushed that off as the strain of getting out of bed.
As I helped her on her right side, I got a look at her arm again. The bandage was totally soaked through with puss and blood. I thought about taking the time to redo the dressings but decided that the hospital could do better, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Julie moaned a little and offered only a little help as we descended the steps, her feet dragging across each carpeted platform before stepping down to the next. We held the bulk of her weight. She was almost being carried to the car.
When we had reached the bottom of the flight, Julie was almost out cold. Her head listed from side to side. Eyes closed, she did little more than feebly put one foot slowly in front of the other. My hands felt greasy from supporting her. One of my hands was under her armpit while the other was around her waist and I wondered again how this disease was passed from person to person. I could hear faint mumblings and moans mixed with her labored breathing. As her head tilted my direction, her breath caught me directly in the face. It was awful. It smelled much like her wound. I hitched her up a little higher and her face, thankfully, tilted the other way. Hey, she wasn't my girlfriend.
Assisting her to the car wasn't that hard, but getting her inside was a serious task.
Three people couldn't fit in the opening the car door allotted, so my neighbor took her in his arms and sat her on the rear seat. Julie immediately sprawled out over the entire back seat area. Dean folded her legs up and propped her feet on the little room remaining. With the door closed, we went to the trunk. We divvied the weapons into two duffel bags and dumped a little food and some water bottles in each. Ammunition followed and, when finished, we closed the back and piled in the front.
"Umm... Aren't you going to open the garage door?" He said with a sideways look.
I returned his look, but mine was laced with fear. "You don't have an electric opener?"
"Yeah," he said with a meaningful look at me. "You!"
"Who in this modern world doesn't have an electric garage door opener? What are you? A Neanderthal?" I said in total disbelief. "I'll bet you have a smart phone!"
"Just open the door," Dean shot back. He clearly wanted to get on his way to the hospital.
I slowly opened the passenger side and exited, nearly hitting my head on a snow shovel as I made my way to the single bay’s opening. The door was old and probably heavy as all heck, but the worst part is that it might be loud. I had no way of knowing if there would be anyone or anything just outside the door.
Chapter 7
Melissa
"Hello, Mel?" I asked in a rush.
Her voice was faint and garbled with static. "Hank? Are you ok?" Relief flooded my body. I literally fell back into the chair by the window.
"I'm fine, Honey. Where are you?" I asked as fast as I could get it out.
"I'm at work." I could make out over the crackling. "I'm ok."
"Stay in a safe place," I said. "I'm going to come and get you."
"But they..." I heard what I thought could have been a crash and the line went dead.
My phone had four bars and data and the display told me I had twenty-seven messages as well as nine voice messages.
I listened and read each one, looking for clues to how Melissa was faring. Almost everyone was asking me to call or text her. She said they were trapped at work with infected people outside trying to get in and that they were waiting for the police.
A part of me was in euphoria. My wife was ok. She was alive. I could barely contain myself. But there was also the dread. What if something happened? I took another peek out of my front window. From the look of Jim's front door, I surmised that the undead weren't the best at breaking down barriers, so if she stayed barricaded in Mel would be just fine, but if there were enough zombies? I had to stop my thought process there. She would be fine. I had to find a way to get there. The sunlight outside was fading, but another light caught my eye. The light was on in my car. The door was standing wide open.
"Crap!" I said loudly. I must have left it open when I went out to get my phone. The light was dim, but if I went out soon, maybe the car would still start.
In a frenzy, I searched for things I might need. I needed a weapon. Melissa wasn't fond of guns and in this sleepy college town, I had never felt the need to acquire one. That sure would change if we got out of this mess. The best thing I could find was a butcher knife; the kind that looked like a little ax. I wasn't so sure of it as a weapon, so I also grabbed the biggest knife I could find. Carrying a blade in each hand, I resumed my search. I stuffed some granola bars in my back pocket and snatched a bottle of water out of the fridge. Juggling the two knives and the water, I discarded the bottle, leaving it on the counter in favor of having two hands to fight with.
I thought of grabbing my jacket but seeing it in front of the door soaked in the dried blood puddle made my choice for me. It was probably welded to the tiles anyway.
There was enough dusky light to still see pretty well. I checked all sides of my house for any animated neighbors and, finding none, I felt compelled to make a try for it. The light in my car's interior was dim, but still shining, so that also bolstered my confidence. Jen and Marcy's torso were still across the street, so I would have to make this quick.
The blood in the doorway was dry, so I didn't have to worry about slipping. The congealed pool actually offered a modicum of traction, so I unlocked the deadbolt and moving as fast as stealth would allow I made my way to the yawning car door. I looked in the back seat before entering so I wouldn't have any surprises. Dropping the knives to the passenger seat, I closed the door, being careful to let the door latch slowly to minimize the sound.
The key slid smoothly into the ignition and I involuntarily held my breath as I turned it. The motor made a cranking sound as it struggled to start. In desperation, I turned the key to the off position and tried it again. Nothing. It made the same cranking noise that it made before. It just wouldn't catch. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Jen was halfway across the lawn and nearing the street. Her mother's torso, propelling her half body with her hands and arms, was following at a slower pace. The noise had also attracted others. At least two more zombies were ambling toward my car from various directions. In desperation, I tramped on the gas to see if giving it more fuel might do the trick. Nothing.
A hand slapped against the driver's side window. The face of Mrs. Crawford flattened against the glass, jaws working as she tried to find an entrance. Trails of drool followed her mouth's movements as another undead struck the car from the other side. Trying to look nonchalant, I pushed the button engaging the door locks as another joined Mrs. Crawford on her side of the vehicle. What I had thought was a modicum of safety was actually a trap. I was exposed to the creatures, but sheltered for the time being.
I returned my attention to the car. Turning the key with all my strength did no more than any of my previous attempts, but I tried it two more times, nonetheless.
As the depleted battery made its last gasps, my heart dropped. I was a failure. I had spent my life with my head in the clouds. I had no friends and barely knew my neighbors. I hadn't been an attentive husband, but when I was about to make up for my past misdeeds, I had let my wife and myself down. I had failed.
Picking up the knives, I pondered the end. I didn't want to become like those creatures out there. There were speculations that the dead only rose after being attacked by the zombies and bitten by them. Maybe if someone died naturally they wouldn't rise again.
Faces and entire bodies pressed against the vehicle as I contemplated my demise. Mrs. Crawford's stump of an arm drew abstract images in blood red and puss yellow. It was almost as if she didn't notice that the appendage was gone. It was only an inconvenience instead of a crippling wound.
The car's gentle rocking would have felt soothing if it weren't for the things rocking it. The squeal of their flesh sliding against the glass was unnerving. Then came the blast.
I was lost in my morass when the first shot sounded. It was soon followed by a second, then a third. The zombies lost interest in me and focused on the sounds of the attacker. Another blast and then another, the undead seemed like they were thinning out. A man rushed to the passenger side of the car and slammed his hand off the glass three times rapidly.
"Come on Hank!" he called out.
I crawled over the console to the passenger door and threw it open just as another gunshot rang out into the semi-darkness. A revolver was pressed into my hand, causing me to drop one of the knives. I then watched as my neighbor, Dean, shrugged a shotgun off of his shoulder and pumped a shell into the chamber.
"Hurry up!" he ordered. "We got to get back to my place."
I followed his lead, head swiveling left to right. Dean blazed a trail towards his front door. He basically shot at anything that moved. I mimicked his style and wound up nearly shooting Mrs. Crawford's cat. The gun's recoil bucked in my hands but it felt good. It made me feel powerful.
We bolted through his door, slamming it shut so hard I think I felt the walls shake. Dean secured the locks and we both nearly swooned. The house was dark, but the faint glow of candles gave just enough illumination to see by. The drawn curtains and blinds probably blocked any of the dim illumination from escaping and giving him away.
"That was close!" he said while lowering his weapon and walking into his living room.
"Almost too close!" I answered, trying to calm my breathing while following him.
Dean slumped into a well-worn brown recliner and propped the gun against the wall behind him. I chose the end of the couch, setting the pistol on the coffee table as I sat down.
"Thank you, Dean!" I gushed. "You saved my life. I can't believe you did that!"
He just waved it off. "No thanks necessary. I was actually trying to figure out a way to talk to you and the opportunity just sprang up."
I gave him a puzzled look. "Talk to me about what?" I asked as a slow thumping began at the closed door.
"We must've missed one," he said, looking at the door. "You're a doctor, right?"
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"Well, it's still the same stuff, Julie is really sick."
My first thought was, who's Julie? I had always believed that Dean had lived here alone. He was the crazy single guy who owned way too much camouflage. I really didn't want to tell him I wouldn't be able to help her unless she was a bug. But I couldn't do that, especially after his daring rescue. So I said, "Sure, let's have a look."
Dean turned on a small flashlight and led the way upstairs. He opened their bedroom door, turned on the light, and let me in. I was temporarily blinded by the glow since I wasn't ready for it. My first concern, as I covered my eyes to give them time to adjust, was that it was so bright it would draw undead. But my worry was for naught, as the window was covered with cardboard to prevent the light from getting out. I was very relieved to have normal illumination to aid in my examination.
A low moan issued from the bed, drawing my immediate attention. I could see his girlfriend, Julie, covered to the neck in a thick comforter. Her face was pale and covered in sweat. Eyes, twin slits, blinked rapidly as she tried to focus on me.
"When did the illness start?" I asked with my best medical doctor voice while I leaned closer to look at her drawn face.
"She got sick over night. I thought she'd really tied one on, but I have never seen a hangover that could last the entire next day. I checked on her about an hour ago and thought I had to do something soon."
I placed two fingers at her throat. The skin there was cool and clammy. I could feel her pulse through her carotid artery. I really didn't know what I was doing, but it felt very slow. I nonchalantly reached up and felt mine as a comparison. My pulse was much stronger and faster feeling. I was confident in my finding now that I had something to match hers against.
"Her pulse is a little weak," I stated with as much of a matter of fact attitude as I could. "Can you lend me the flashlight?" I asked Dean, holding out one hand, waiting.
Dean fumbled for the switch and powered the light on before placing it in my outstretched palm. His hand was shaking as he released its weight into my grasp. I then noticed the beam of light was exaggerating the shake of my own hand.
"Look straight ahead," I instructed the young woman in the bed. As I shone the light directly in her right eye, I noticed that it had a very slow reaction to the bright light in her face. In addition, the iris had very little color.
I tested both eyes several times and then asked her to follow the light. She had trouble tracking the beam as I moved it in a few deliberate directions.
"Can you sit up and lean forward?" I asked, half expecting her to say she couldn't. When she began to struggle out of the cotton cocoon Dean and I assisted her with gentle hands on her back. The comforter and sheets fell forward and I could see that Julie had sweat right through the thin fabric of her muscle t-shirt.
I placed an ear against her back and asked her to breathe normally. Having to strain, I could barely distinguish her lungs operating at all. Asking her to exhale and inhale deeply produced only moderately better results. I could see that my neighbor's face bore a look of concern. His hands were folded over his chest as if praying. She was very ill and in need of a real doctor's attention.
"You can lay back down now," I soothed, replacing my hand behind her shoulders to add support. As she began to recline, one of her hands reached out and began to pull the bed cover back over her. The smell nearly knocked me over. She smelled like the dead outside. Worse yet, the bandages on her arm seemed soaked through with dried blood and what looked like puss.
"What happened to your arm?" I asked, trying to quell the tremor of fear in my voice.
"Some guy bit her last night when she was out. It isn't deep. Just a few tooth marks. I put peroxide on it and covered it with gauze after she got home." Dean said, looking me directly in the face.
He knew, or at least suspected, what was happening to his Julie. I wasn't sure, but I thought he must have smelled the wound a few moments ago. It clearly smelled of rotting flesh, just like the zombies outside.
I reached down, speaking in comforting tones, and removed the bandages. As the gauze unwound I nearly gagged. The odor was overwhelming. I unwrapped the last bit of the bandages, revealing an angry red wound. Puss spilled from at least three places where I suspect the man's teeth had broken the surface of her skin. The crimson area was totally surrounded with black, putrefying skin. Jagged lines of black radiated out across her healthy flesh like veins full of venom. Maybe they were. I was way out of my league here.
I doused the wound in more peroxide, which foamed like crazy as it hit her rotting skin, and rewrapped it in fresh bandages. I splashed some more peroxide over my hands to try to sterilize them the best the situation would allow, then dried them on a clean towel. After we tucked Julie back in bed, I motioned Dean outside. He powered the flashlight on and lead the way downstairs.
When we reached the living room, Dean turned and asked, "How is she, Hank?" His eyes were begging for good news.
"I don't know. She really is in bad shape." I lied, not wanting to have to tell him that she was on her way to becoming like the undead outside.
"Who is she?" I blurted out, not sure how to ask with any decorum.
"She's my girlfriend! We've been dating for a few months now," he responded, sounding mildly offended.
"I'm sorry, Dean," I apologized. "I just don't hear all the neighborhood gossip. I spend too much time in the lab."
My neighbor stood facing me with an odd look. After a short moment, he responded. "That's all right. I understand." Clearly, he didn't.
"We need to get her to the hospital," I said, stating what I thought was obvious.
"The news was saying something about the hospitals, but I can't remember what," he murmured. "It's probably not important."
I placed a hand on his shoulder and propelled him toward his kitchen. "Probably that they are in the safe zones. The news was saying that they have a bunch of protected areas set up and were telling people who were in trouble that they could go there." I knew that there was something else. It was something that I was forgetting. I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Dean had an attached garage, which housed a Jeep Liberty. We stuffed the back with a case of warm water and some food from his kitchen. Food, both canned and boxed, all made its way into the rear of the vehicle. It looked like we were going camping. We added some of his weapons and ammunition to the trunk and topped it off with some clean clothes. Dean had a small armory of guns. He kept pulling them out of drawers, closets, and even some places where you would never expect a firearm to dwell. One of the craziest places was a basket by the toilet.
When I asked him about it, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Wouldn't want to get caught by some crook while sitting on the crapper! It just wouldn't be right. You're just too vulnerable there... Exposed."
I really couldn't argue with logic like that, so I just nodded and snagged a four pack of toilet paper, just in case.
Before we went upstairs, Dean handed me a box of bullets for the revolver and two things called speed-loaders. He showed me how the speed-loaders worked and I stashed them in the front pockets of my Dockers. The gun, I tucked in the front of my belt. I was feeling powerful as I looked at the gun stuffed in my pants. Macho. When my eyes met Dean's, he gave me a weird look and said something about getting a holster before I shot off something I might want to keep. I was still clueless when he turned and began ascending the stairs. I guess he meant I might discharge the pistol, hitting myself in the foot?
When we returned to the room, I noticed that the smell had gotten worse. Dean opened a drawer and tossed me what he had retrieved. It was a holster. I guess he really was worried about where I had the gun. I unbuckled my belt and went about affixing the holster.
As I helped her on her right side, I got a look at her arm again. The bandage was totally soaked through with puss and blood. I thought about taking the time to redo the dressings but decided that the hospital could do better, so I kept my thoughts to myself. Julie moaned a little and offered only a little help as we descended the steps, her feet dragging across each carpeted platform before stepping down to the next. We held the bulk of her weight. She was almost being carried to the car.
When we had reached the bottom of the flight, Julie was almost out cold. Her head listed from side to side. Eyes closed, she did little more than feebly put one foot slowly in front of the other. My hands felt greasy from supporting her. One of my hands was under her armpit while the other was around her waist and I wondered again how this disease was passed from person to person. I could hear faint mumblings and moans mixed with her labored breathing. As her head tilted my direction, her breath caught me directly in the face. It was awful. It smelled much like her wound. I hitched her up a little higher and her face, thankfully, tilted the other way. Hey, she wasn't my girlfriend.
Assisting her to the car wasn't that hard, but getting her inside was a serious task.
Three people couldn't fit in the opening the car door allotted, so my neighbor took her in his arms and sat her on the rear seat. Julie immediately sprawled out over the entire back seat area. Dean folded her legs up and propped her feet on the little room remaining. With the door closed, we went to the trunk. We divvied the weapons into two duffel bags and dumped a little food and some water bottles in each. Ammunition followed and, when finished, we closed the back and piled in the front.
"Umm... Aren't you going to open the garage door?" He said with a sideways look.
I returned his look, but mine was laced with fear. "You don't have an electric opener?"
"Yeah," he said with a meaningful look at me. "You!"
"Who in this modern world doesn't have an electric garage door opener? What are you? A Neanderthal?" I said in total disbelief. "I'll bet you have a smart phone!"
"Just open the door," Dean shot back. He clearly wanted to get on his way to the hospital.
I slowly opened the passenger side and exited, nearly hitting my head on a snow shovel as I made my way to the single bay’s opening. The door was old and probably heavy as all heck, but the worst part is that it might be loud. I had no way of knowing if there would be anyone or anything just outside the door.
Chapter 7
Melissa